Dreamology(11)

“Nothing. You ask a lot of questions,” Max says.

“The Amazon is in Brazil, and it’s Brazilian Night,” I explain.

He starts picking up utensils. “Never been.”

“What about Thailand? Or Egypt?”

“Nope.” He starts to lift his tray again, nodding to a table of soccer players who are motioning him over.

I take a deep breath, giving it one last shot. “Me either,” I say. “But the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a pretty great Egyptian tomb . . . I went there once.” I swish a plantain around in chocolate milk for a second before peering back up at him. “Have you?”

Max puts his tray down a little too roughly. His silverware clangs against the plate, and now people are looking over and conversations have become hushed. I’m sure everyone wants to know why one of the most notable guys in school is looking at the random new girl like he wants to swat her with a piece of rolled-up newspaper.

“I was just . . . making conversation . . .” I mutter. “Sorry.”

Max shakes his head, inhaling deeply. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just really hungry, low blood sugar, and a rough practice today . . .” He takes the napkin on his tray and hands it to me. “You might need this. I’ll see you in class.”

My face burns as I take the napkin, wiping my hand on it and then using it to dab my tray. I feel dozens of eyes slowly turn away from me, and the chatter of the dining hall resumes. What was I doing? Because all I’ve actually accomplished is alienating the one person I am trying to get close to, who very clearly isn’t the person I so badly want him to be. How many times did he need to brush me off before I got it in my head? Of course Max isn’t the same guy I dream about. It’s not possible.

“Alice Rowe?” A tired woman’s voice comes over the school intercom. “Could Alice Rowe please report to the dessert section of the dining hall? I repeat, Alice Rowe to the dessert section of the dining hall. Thank you.”

Confused, I run a hand through my hair and do as instructed. Oliver is standing by the confections, arms crossed and chin resting atop a fist, studying them as though this decision will affect the rest of his life.

“Do I want a brownie or fro-yo?” he asks aloud, then turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, like it’s a perfectly natural question.

“Did you just page me?” I ask. I’m still totally confused, but I’m also relieved.

“You’re right, fro-yo is pretty girly,” he says.

“How did you just page me if you are standing right here?” I say.

“Fro-yo is for babes, but I feel like a man can get away with a sundae. No?”

“Oliver.”

“Pick a pastry, Alice,” he says. “Then we’ll talk.”

A few minutes later we are peering at each other over the biggest sundae I have ever seen, piled high with everything we could get our hands on—gummy bears, sprinkles, cookie crumbles, fudge sauce, and a mother lode of whipped cream.

“Roberta,” Oliver says with his mouth full. “The dean’s receptionist. She hides it well, but she loves me. I texted her and asked for the loudspeaker announcement. You looked like you needed it.”

I can’t help but notice that this is the second time Oliver has saved me when I “needed it.” I really hope I won’t be in a position to need rescuing again. “Why do you have Roberta’s number?” I ask, taking a giant bite of mostly whipped cream.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Oliver asks.

I snort. “I just can’t believe you paged me to the desserts. I thought we were in an episode of Law & Order: Special Cookie Unit.”

Oliver smiles. “Well, until I paged you, I thought you were in an episode of The Young and the Restless. What’s with Captain Douche?” He gives a quick nod in the direction of the doorway, where Max is putting his tray away.

I just shrug and take another bite of ice cream that takes forever to swallow. How can I tell him that I thought I knew Max from a lifetime of dreams, but I somehow managed to imagine everything? That even though I really feel like I know Max, he’s not actually the Max I know. That the Max I know . . . well, that Max doesn’t even exist.

“You don’t wanna talk about it?” he asks.

I just shake my head.

“In that case, may I Segway you home?”

It turns out Oliver lives four blocks from Nan’s house, which I know I should start calling my house. But my house is a floor-through walk-up on 119th Street, a strange hybrid of teenage lair and perpetual man cave. Not an endless maze of Oriental carpeting and paintings with heavy gold frames. My house has restaurants representing six different countries within a one-block radius. Nan’s has a place called Beacon Hill Fine Linens.

“Is there anything more ridiculous than a store specializing in five-hundred-dollar sheets?” I ask Oliver when we pass it on our way home. “It makes sleep, one of our most basic needs, elitist.” I am walking Frank beside him, and he is walking his Segway, because it ran out of juice.

“You want ridiculous?” he asks. “I went to the corner store to grab some milk for my cornflakes last week, because my parents forget I need to eat sometimes, and the lady said they only carry organic sheep’s milk. She told me that with a completely straight face. I just turned and walked out.”